


A Different Kind Of Light

by boughofawillowtree



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angelic Lore, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Nesting, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), no betas we saunter vaguely downwards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22310764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boughofawillowtree/pseuds/boughofawillowtree
Summary: Aziraphale suddenly wants to buy a bunch of things. His friend Crowley is confused. Then they figure it out.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 280
Collections: Unbalanced Humours





	A Different Kind Of Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SugarMagic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarMagic/gifts).



> This is a gift for SugarMagic who is, well, magic. <3 Hope it helps balance your humors a bit!

Aziraphale had never been one for shopping - he had everything he needed in his bookshop, and could miracle himself anything else. Food was an exception, but the humans usually separated groceries from all other sales, and so Aziraphale almost never found himself in any shop besides his own.

But one day, as he walked home from one of his favorite butchers with the beginnings of an excellent charcuterie plate wrapped in wax paper, the window of an antique store caught his eye. He had walked past the storefront hundreds, if not thousands, of times over the years as he patronized Chameleon’s Cuts, and never noticed it.

Today, however, they had on display an antique quilt, one Aziraphale felt nearly _compelled_ to go inside and investigate. With a snap of his fingers, he sent the butcher’s cuts into the fridge back home and walked inside, noting with pride that some humans were still using bells over the door to announce new arrivals (although he much preferred the tones of the bell in his bookshop to the harsh jangle that heralded him here).

The quilt was beautiful - a pattern of interlocking circles in muted greys and deep reds, on a cream colored background. The tag claimed that it was from the mid 1800s, but a careful examination of the fabric and stitching led Aziraphale to guess it was probably a 20th century production. Still, it was an exquisite piece of work, with perfect hand-stitching and heavy batting inside that would make it perfect for snuggling up underneath.

Aziraphale purchased the quilt and carried it home, enjoying its soft weight in his arms. It looked lovely, he decided, draped over the plush chair next to the fireplace.

The next day, he couldn’t keep the antique store out of his mind, so he decided to revisit. The older woman behind the counter looked genuinely delighted to have an interested customer, which Aziraphale found charming, as well as confusing. He wandered the cluttered but well organized shelves, and soon found a large victrola, in an ornately carved wooden case that stood nearly shoulder-height. 

He wanted it, cherished it, _needed_ it with an intensity he never felt for anything but books.

And Crowley, but that was quite different. Now that he and Crowley were out from under the confines of their respective “sides,” they were free to openly befriend each other. It had been about five years since they had begun the second phase of their Arrangement, and though that was barely a blink in the lifetime of immortal creatures, it was perhaps the most significant half-decade in all of Aziraphale’s long life. 

So much had changed, and it didn’t show signs of slowing down. It seemed that every day, Aziraphale’s love for his friend deepened, the infinite space of it continuing to expand.

All this to say that Aziraphale, though he was no stranger to desire, was surprised to find himself so stricken by the large victrola cabinet that he had no choice but to acquire it immediately. He did not have much time to question his feelings, however, as he was entirely focused on completing the transaction and gaining ownership of the victrola as soon as possible.

Aziraphale arranged with the shop owner to have it delivered to his bookshop that afternoon, happily paying extra for the speedy delivery. 

It occurred to him, as he walked home, whistling with glee over his new possession, that he would need records to play on the thing, and he found himself wandering into a record store a few blocks over.

The cardboard sleeves all called to him, the familiar feeling of dust under his fingers, the lovely art adorning each one. As he flicked through the racks of records, he recognized plenty of musical artists that Crowley had enjoyed over the years. They even had some older music that was more to Aziraphale’s tastes. 

Soon he found himself at the counter with an armful of records. The young clerk raised her eyes at the total after she was finished ringing them up, but Aziraphale happily miracled himself enough for all the records.

“New to the hobby?” asked the clerk as she gently stacked all his new records into canvas bags stamped with the store’s logo. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, not fully understanding the question.

“Do you,” the clerk asked cautiously, “have a way to play all of these?”

Aziraphale nodded, thinking fondly of the victrola on its way to his home that very day. “Why do you ask, dear?”

“Well,” she continued, in a tone that indicated she was searching for tactful words, “some people get really into old records, but they use cheaper record players that can actually damage the records. Or they don’t realize what it takes to play a record, and end up with music they can’t listen to.”

“Oh my.” Aziraphale clutched one bag to his chest, feeling very protective of his new belongings. “I do have an antique victrola, but perhaps you could show me what you recommend?”

The clerk set his purchases behind the counter and led him to the store’s back wall, where mechanical devices in all colors were lined up. She started to show him one about the size of two bread boxes, when something caught his eyes.

It looked like a table, or a desk, but the top was covered in buttons and levers, as well as two bits that looked like flattened phonographs. The entire thing was lacquered in a gleaming metallic red.

“What is this?” Aziraphale asked, running his hand over the smooth surface.

“Oh, you don’t need anything like that,” she said, attempting to turn his attention back to the smaller thing she had first pointed out.

Aziraphale was near breathless with longing. “But this will play my records? Without harming them?”

“Well, yes,” the clerk conceded, “but that’s a whole DJ deck, you don’t need any of that just to listen to music.”

Aziraphale only half heard her, having already decided that he must have this magnificent thing in his home. “I’ll take it,” he said.

“Sir, I really don’t think that’s what you want. It’s not worth the cost, not for -”

Aziraphale smiled beatifically at the clerk, and if the smile had a touch of angelic power behind it, well, he couldn’t help it. She quickly moved to the cash register and handed Aziraphale a stack of carbon paper forms to fill out for its delivery.

Everything arrived that evening. Aziraphale, normally not fond of workmen or any other strangers in his bookshop and the attached flat, had a grand time showing the strapping young movers where he wanted his items placed. In the end, he was thrilled with the new additions. The red in the turntables was so striking, and the wood of the victrola cabinet so warm. 

The next day, he decided he needed some shelving for his new record collection, and some top-notch speakers for each room. He made his way to a furniture store, and then a shop that specialized in audio technology. Everywhere he went, he insisted on spending the extra money for same-day delivery, and could hardly wait for everything to be where it belonged.

During his adventure in consumer purchases, he found his eyes drawn to a toy store and stepped inside. There, he found a wall of plush animals, and was suddenly seized with a need to have some of them, too. He selected a massive snake covered in sequin scales, a white dove with fur instead of feathers, and a bear full of what felt like heavy beans. Next was a table full of games, and Aziraphale bought a number of lovely boxes that the clerk assured him contained entertaining games for two people. 

This reminded him of something, so he stopped by the antique store again, where the owner was beside herself with glee to see him, and picked up a chess table made of fine stone inlay. The squares were jet-black onyx and glittering white marble, with hand-carved pieces to match.

Crowley was expected for dinner at the bookshop flat that night, and Aziraphale couldn’t wait to show him all his new things. 

The demon, however, seemed less than enthused about all of the fuss, glowering as he dodged two movers hauling a heavy box and slinking his wiry form through a narrow passageway created by two pieces of furniture.

“Angel, _what_ is all this about?”

Aziraphale could feel his face break out into a beaming smile. “I’ve done a bit of shopping - do you like it?”

Crowley ducked his head as a man carried a ladder past them and winced at the sound of a motorized drill that a woman in overalls was using to install some new shelves above the victrola. “You know you can just miracle yourself new things, right? You don’t need to deal with -” Crowley waved his hand around at the chaos in the flat “- all this.”

Aziraphale shrugged. That hadn’t occurred to him, and now that Crowley mentioned it, sounded a lot less fun. “No,” he said, “I greatly enjoyed going out and selecting everything, then seeing it arrive.” Aziraphale picked up the new quilt from its place of honor on Crowley’s favorite chair. “Isn’t this lovely? Oh, do feel it.” Aziraphale held the quilt out to Crowley, encouraging the demon to stroke the sturdy but soft fabric. 

“It’s nice, angel.” Crowley still sounded confused. “But it’s not like you. Six thousand years, you’ve never been one for...things.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve always had my books, and my china for tea.”

“Exactly.” Crowley gestured at the quilt. “Six thousand years of books and food. Never quilts, or things like that.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale was having so much fun gathering new things for his shop and flat, and it had felt so similar to his joy at finding a rare and precious book, that he hadn’t thought much about how unusual his new collections were until Crowley pointed it out.

It didn’t bother him, though. “Perhaps it’s time for a change!” Aziraphale smiled brightly, not sure why Crowley was so fussed about all this.

Crowley narrowed his eyes, something clearly on his mind, but he said nothing.

“S’cuse me,” mumbled a beanpole of a boy as he stepped between the two beings momentarily, holding a tangle of wires over his head. Aziraphale recognized him from the audio store - he was here to install the speakers. Crowley’s eyes followed the boy with a glare.

“And how are we supposed to have dinner here?”

Aziraphale had to admit, he had not considered that the bustle of the many deliveries would make a quiet evening in somewhat difficult. He was about to suggest an outing when he was interrupted by a friendly, ruddy-cheeked man with a bushy mustache bringing over a clipboard with something for Aziraphale to sign. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow, as if to say, _I told you so._ Aziraphale was overcome. Oh, how he adored the demon’s quirks, even his sweet sullenness, his grouchy exterior.

“Alright, dear. Let’s get Thai.”

***

Crowley had to admit, some of Aziraphale’s new possessions were quite fun. Given his propensity for sleep, he definitely appreciated the various new blankets and pillows Aziraphale kept adding to his couches and bedroom - all hand-selected by the angel. Some of the new paintings on the wall were lovely as well, especially the original Wyeth. The large stuffed snake that spent most of its time draped over the back of the couch was an odd addition, but it did make for a nice neck pillow.

The color scheme in the bookshop and flat, he couldn’t help but notice, had shifted dramatically. Previously, it had been entirely Aziraphale’s - dusty pastels, ivory and cream, various shades of antique brown. Now, alongside that still very prominent palette, there were greys and blacks, shiny metallic jewel tones, and pops of deep, rich red. It all swirled together most pleasantly, and the overall effect was not dissimilar to the quilt that Aziraphale kept prominently displayed: grey, red, and soft cream interlinked in a careful looping ring pattern.

But his favorite, by far, was the new music system. Aziraphale had procured, for unknown reasons that Crowley doubted he’d ever fully grasp, a massive DJ deck and turntable in a color Crowley could only describe as “hot rod red.” It was hooked up to a state-of-the-art stereo system that included the entire building, so they could listen to music anywhere and everywhere. Alongside it was a record collection that encompassed all of Crowley’s preferences, included some obscure B-sides he was thrilled to discover, and also allowed for Aziraphale’s tastes.

They played Bach and Mozart softly over breakfast, Crowley blasted Bowie or The Doors while Aziraphale was out, and during the evenings they played chess while Aziraphale hummed along to the Beatles. (Crowley had succeeded in charming Aziraphale with only two musical artists from after 1900: the Beatles and The Mountain Goats, with Woody Guthie on his way to securing the third spot.) 

Still, while Crowley was enjoying their new routines, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it all meant something. Aziraphale seemed unwilling, and perhaps unable, to discuss the changes. The angel insisted that he was shopping for things to fill his apartment with simply because he wanted to, and because he liked them. 

But Crowley had known Aziraphale since the literal dawn of time, and it wasn’t like Aziraphale to suddenly discover new preferences and desires. The angel tolerated change so poorly that he still called bicycles “velocipedes” and had to be bribed with a chocolate souffle to listen to _Rubber Soul_. Aziraphale, however, seemed happier than he had been in a long while, if a bit baffled by his own behavior. So Crowley resolved to leave a good thing alone.

Until the plants arrived.

Crowley was visiting for breakfast, and Aziraphale was making him an espresso. The espresso machine was, of course, another one of Aziraphale’s recent acquisitions. The angel didn’t even drink espresso, and Crowley had insisted that he was fine with standard coffee from the pot, but that didn’t change anything. Nothing Crowley said or did could quell whatever was driving Aziraphale to fill his apartment with more and more _things_ , things he had previously had zero interest in or need for. 

And besides, Crowley had to admit, it was stellar espresso. He liked their new ritual: his arrival in the morning before the bookshop opened, Aziraphale fixing him a cup, soft classical music playing over the speakers. So he wasn’t complaining.

That morning, however, the doorbell rang, and rather than getting cross at the tenacity of humans, Aziraphale clapped his hands and nearly jumped with glee. _Another delivery, then._ Crowley followed him downstairs and watched as the angel opened the door. A man in a worker’s uniform stood outside, holding a potted plant in his arms.

 _Wrong address, mate._ But to Crowley’s shock, Aziraphale led the man inside. Nearly a half dozen humans followed, and they immediately set about installing hanging pots in the ceiling, setting smaller plants among the bookshelves, and carrying in larger plants that Aziraphale directed them to set on the floor.

Crowley could only watch in astonishment as verdant clusters of green joined the reds and browns and blacks and creams and silvers of the bookshop and flat. He didn’t speak until he saw the last thing being unloaded from the truck.

Someone help him, it was an apple tree. Tall enough to reach nearly to the ceiling, set in an absolutely enormous black glazed pot. Aziraphale led them to the back of the shop and had the tree - which took four humans to carry - set in the corner next to his desk.

“Aziraphale, _what_ is that?”

“It’s an apple tree!” Sounding like a delighted child, Aziraphale pointed to a tiny green apple on one of the branches. “They’ll be big and red soon enough.”

“I see that,” Crowley said, trying to keep his worry out of his voice. “But...why?”

“I saw it in a nursery - did you know, that’s what humans are calling it nowadays, somewhere you go to get plants? But of course you would know that, you already have plenty of plants. You do so enjoy them. Nurseries, though, imagine that!” Aziraphale chuckled wistfully.

“Yes, I know all about nurseries.” Crowley rubbed his forehead. “Aziraphale, this is an entire tree, in your _home_.”

Aziraphale looked hurt. “You don’t like it?”

Crowley wondered what that had to do with anything. “Of course I like it, angel.” It was, he had to admit, an excellent specimen. “But why do you have it?”

Aziraphale crossed his arms, and Crowley knew what was coming. “Why must I have a reason, Crowley? I liked it, and I think it looks lovely here. It’s not as if I have financial concerns. I’m allowed to have things! I could ask you - why do you have the Bentley?”

Crowley sighed. The angel always got evasive when Crowley asked about the motivation behind any of his purchases. In the beginning, he’d wondered whether Aziraphale was keeping some kind of secret from him. It was clear by now, though, that Aziraphale simply didn’t have an answer, and was just as frustrated by the absence of a _why_. 

“It’s alright, angel, no need to get upset.” Crowley put his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders and felt the angel calm almost immediately. “It’s a lovely tree - they’re all lovely. You’re right, you should have anything you want.”

They did not discuss the plants again, though Crowley took it upon himself to keep them well tended and watered, unsure whether Aziraphale understood that they needed more frequent care than the rest of his things.

***

Aziraphale liked his new apple tree. He liked sitting under its leaves at his desk. He liked watching the blush of red slowly cover the little green apples as they grew.

He could not explain why he liked the tree, though. When it came to old books, and delicious food, and of course his beloved demon, he could list a thousand things he loved about them. But when it came to the tree, and the record player, and everything else, there was nothing there. Just a clear, wordless desire. He had wanted to have them. And now he enjoyed having them.

Aziraphale tried to tell himself to leave it alone, to let it be as simple as that. Still, it bothered him, a question always tickling the back of his mind. What was happening to him? Certainly he’d had his share of detours into various interests and hobbies over the millennia, but nothing so inexplicable and strong as this. 

The answer, he hoped, would be in one of his books.

He found a number of books on human psychology and read about a phenomenon called “hoarding,” but that didn’t seem relevant to his situation. Nor did a concept referred to as “retail therapy.” He hadn’t started on any new medications. Nothing in any of the human books applied to him. Besides, he wasn’t a human. Perhaps that was the trouble. He would need to find information on ethereal beings and why they might suddenly be overcome with new and bizarre compulsions.

Fortunately, he had plenty of books on the mythical and the fantastic, the occult and the ethereal. And in one afternoon of research, seated under his tree, he had an answer.

Of course, he thought, once he discovered it. How could he have missed it? And Crowley, too? Surely demons had a similar instinct. He felt foolish, and full of relief for having solved the mystery.

***

Aziraphale sounded chipper but rather manic on the phone, and Crowley could not help his anxiety. They were already riding the wave of Aziraphale’s new shopping habit, and he did not know what would come next.

He wanted Crowley to come over right away. It was still a few hours before he was due for their nightly chess match, but Aziraphale wanted to speak about something immediately. Crowley arrived at the bookshop in record time, terrorizing a number of pedestrians on his way.

“I figured it out,” Aziraphale said the moment Crowley stepped inside. 

“Hm?” Crowley set his glasses down and went to inspect one of the plants. 

“The reason I’ve been buying all these objects,” Aziraphale said triumphantly. “Do sit down, come, sit.” He took his usual spot on the sofa and drew the quilt over his legs, motioning for Crowley to join him.

“What is it?” Crowley sat down beside Aziraphale, moving a stuffed owl out of the way as he did so. He curled his legs up under him and tucked the quilt over his knees.

“Look.” Aziraphale opened a book in his lap and pointed to a section, then began to read aloud:

_“Some species, such as gryphons, harpies, cockatrices, and phoenixes, manifest a nesting instinct when an individual begins to feel great affection for a mate or a potential mate. Under the spell of a nesting instinct, a creature will begin collecting objects designed to please the object of their affection. Often, this leads to the creation of a “nest:” a space which holds the collected items. A nest is typically the site of consummation, if the affections are returned.”_

He looked up at Crowley with a wide grin. “Do you see? That’s what I’ve been doing. Where all my feelings are coming from. I think I’m - what does it say - ‘under the spell of a nesting instinct.’”

Crowley laughed. “Aziraphale, those are animals - some of which don’t even exist. You’re a _person._ ”

“Well, I am an angel,” Aziraphale said primly. “It all makes sense, doesn’t it? I’m nesting!”

“You really think so?” Crowley looked around the shop, full to bursting with records, the turntable, plants, games for two players, and all manner of blankets and pillows and plush animals. 

“Of course!”

“Right.” Crowley wanted to feel the same joy that Aziraphale was feeling at the revelation. It was nice to have the mystery solved, but something was weighing on him, an implication in all of this that had stolen the air from his lungs. “That’s nice, angel.”

“But don’t you see?” Aziraphale gestured widely, growing a little frantic, as if he were worried that Crowley was failing to understand. “It’s all for you! The snake, the apple tree, the music and the plants. I’ve been collecting things I think you’d like. I’m nesting for _you_ , Crowley!”

Crowley could not summon excitement to match Aziraphale’s. He felt like he was sinking, Aziraphale standing at the top of a well, shouting down cheery assurances as Crowley fell farther and farther away. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale sounded desperately confused. Crowley felt a firm hand rubbing his back. “What’s wrong, darling?”

“I just…” Crowley felt silly for being so upset, but he couldn’t help it. He pointed miserably to the book still open on Aziraphale’s lap. “It says there that the whole mess starts when the affection starts. So...has all this...everything...was it real?”

He could hardly bear the thought. All those years. Oysters in Rome. Crepes in Paris. Rides in the Bentley. Feeding ducks at the park. Had he been a fool, seeing affection that wasn’t there? And then all this. Saving the world together. Being on their own side. Late nights drinking wine, trips to the countryside. Picnics. Was Aziraphale just pitying him, playing a part?

“Oh! Oh, oh dear. Oh my.” Aziraphale’s hands fluttered in the air, his entire body a picture of agitation. He slipped from the couch and took a knee in front of Crowley, grabbing at the demon’s hands. Crowley lifted his head to look at Aziraphale. The angel’s blue eyes were wide and pleading.

“Crowley, please - I’m so sorry, dear, if you got the wrong impression. I’ve loved you for so long, even before I knew that I did. And I made you wait, I’m terribly sorry for all that. But I think - this thing, this nesting - I think it only just surfaced because we’re together, at last, safely. I needed us to be on our own side. It should have happened long ago, if it was simply affection that triggered it, please do believe that.”

Crowley rarely heard Aziraphale sound so flustered. He had nothing to say, could not have gotten a word in even if he had, and only let Aziraphale’s jumbled declarations of love spill over him.

“I’ve always gone so slow, and that must have been so awful for you. I am sorry, love. Perhaps this happening now was my inner self giving me a kick in the rear, so to speak. My affection for you prior to this odd episode was just as strong, and genuine. I only struggled to express it.”

There was the familiar cadence returning to Aziraphale’s speech. Crowley smiled. 

“Do you believe that?”

Crowley nodded. “Of course, angel.” And he did. The despair he had felt only seconds ago vanished entirely. “I’m sorry, I-”

“None of that,” Aziraphale said gently. “You’ve been nothing but patient with me, and here it took some queer, latent angelic peculiarity to force me into honesty.” He smiled shyly, looking up at Crowley. “I’m lucky it did, too.”

“I love you too,” Crowley said, holding Aziraphale’s hands in his and marvelling at their weight and softness. The word _consummation_ floated to the top of his mind, and he batted it away. He certainly hoped that this “nesting instinct” included such desire in Aziraphale, but he would not press. This was enough - more than enough. This was what he had longed for ever since Aziraphale charmed him that day on the wall in Eden. 

“Well then,” Aziraphale said, his plump cheeks beginning to pinken, “there’s one other piece of information I came across in my research that I’d like to share with you.”

“Oh?” Crowley squirmed on the sofa, suddenly very aware of their odd position, Aziraphale on one knee in front of him.

“Yes. Do you see this antique quilt, here? It is perhaps my favorite of my new things, and in fact it was the first. I saw it in a shop window and needed to bring it home for you, and that acquisition seemed to catalyze all the rest.” Aziraphale paused to look fondly over the quilt, then looked back up at Crowley, adoration written plainly on his face.

“The pattern, it turns out, is named Wedding Ring.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "home" my Morgxn
> 
> _  
> You were my vagabond  
>  You swam across the devil's pond  
> Let the comfort of your family  
> Deliver all your fantasies  
> And for all those, all those stars that shine  
> It's a different, different kind of light  
> I'm going back home to the place where I belong  
> There's nothing like it  
> No, nothing like it  
> Take me back home  
> Where the blood runs through my soul  
> I can't describe it, there's nothing like it_


End file.
